


On the courtship of an angel

by Bookish_penguin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Ring Exchange, and get married, but he did give good advice maybe, but they go to a christmas market before that, crowley is lovesick, hastur wants to die, omg big uwus, thanks hastur, theY propOSe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_penguin/pseuds/Bookish_penguin
Summary: Crowley is at a loss of what to do with his feelings. Hastur has a couple of ideas. Love advice from a duke of hell, what could go wrong?Featuring: Crowley pining, Hastur fuming, an eventual romantic stroll through a Christmas market and a long awaited proposal.





	On the courtship of an angel

Fact number one: Aziraphale is heart-wrenchingly beautiful in the morning light. He takes the tip of his index finger between his lips, darts a tongue briefly over it and uses it to crisply turn a page. He smiles. He always smiles as he reads. The corners of his eyes crinkle. When the light hits the edges of his irises, it illuminates them fully and leaves the cerulean strands and gold dust in his eyes in a breathtaking iridescence. His snowy hair is deliciously curled. They brush against his collar, curl around his ears, kick out from the top of his head. 

Fact number two: Crowley is absolutely smitten. He is in deep, deep, ridiculous love and there is nothing he can do about it. 

He circles around Aziraphale. Always has, since the day they met. If Aziraphale is the sun, lovely and bright and warm then he is a cold planet, drawn to that alluring light. He is pulled into perpetual orbit around the marvel that is Aziraphale, destined to never wander far. 

Aziraphale notices him. He beams and tips his head back, curls bouncing ever so slightly. At this angle Crowley sees through the delicate reading glasses that sits on the bridge of his nose, distorting the words on his book underneath. He sees his pale lashes flutter against his cheek. He sees the light in his eyes, loving, passionate, pure. 

“Might you be getting a little peckish?” Aziraphale asks. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve read past lunch again, haven’t I?”

“’s alright.” Crowley swallows. He is on edge, restless, aching for something. Maybe he _ is _a little hungry. His gait is hasty as he makes for the door. “Er. I’ll be off now.”

Aziraphale snaps his book shut. He looks up curiously, taking the glasses off his nose, folding them neatly in his hands. Such beautiful hands. The careful, contemplative fingers of a scholar. A healer. “Won’t you join me for lunch?”

Crowley has to tear his eyes away. “No. Not uh, not today. Sorry. See you...see you later?”

“I see.” Aziraphale’s eyes fall. He sounds a little disappointed. Still, the smile he gives is full of love. “See you soon, my dear.” 

Crowley’s heart refuses to go. It clings desperately to the threshold, never loosening its hold no matter what. Crowley leaves it there. It’s fine. It’s where it belongs. 

————

Hell’s bar is dingy and loud. 

Demons don’t eat or drink, per say. But debauchery is a sin and greatly encouraged. Crowley won a medal once, for drowning a grand six hundred and sixty-six bottles of wine in 1862, after Aziraphale had turned down his outlandish request for holy water. Then he went home and collapsed into the longest sleep in his entire existence. Only a century later did he wake up, needless to say, with a massive hangover. 

He doesn’t come here often. It is dirty and smelly and there is a lack of good company, and worst of all, no Aziraphale. But there has been a small improvement. After Armageddon (almost), most demons have grown skittish around him and will generally avoid his immediate radius. No more sudden knives in his back (surprise!), no more awkward small-talk. Just him, alone with his seventeen drinks. Perfect. 

A hand pulls aside the chair opposite his. Crowley looks up, lowers his shades and swears. 

“Oh for the love of satan.” He scowls. “Go. Away.” 

Hastur happily does the exact opposite. He spreads himself all over the seat, rolling his shoulders back, popping his joints. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face round ‘ere.” 

“Yes, you know me. Unforgivable. Can you piss off already?”

The demon takes one of the drinks on the table and peers into the mug. “Aye, you’re a proper bastard all right. Where’s your angel toy?”

Crowley sputters, “_ What _.” 

“Did you have a fight? Did he finally get sick of you at last?” Hastur suggests gleefully. “Were you kicked out? _ Oh _, is this why you’re moving back to Hell?”

“Shuuuut uppp.” Crowley makes a face of utmost repulsion. “None of those happened. You’re an idiot.”

Hastur deadpans. “How dull. So you’re sittin’ here in this shithole, drinkin’ this piss and making that pathetic face for no reason at all?”

“What face? A dark, sexy and dominant face?”

“A ‘I just got dumped by my boyfriend at 3am’ face,” says Hastur flatly.

Crowley downs five mugs of beer to make himself forget he had ever heard that. Once he is dizzy, sloshing with alcohol and very, very drunk, he musters the strength to say, “Aziraphale is _ not _my boyfriend.” 

He pauses. Looks down at his writhing hands. Sees the sheen of his black painted nails, the knuckles that Aziraphale had kissed just a day ago. Something rises inside him; hot, angry, demanding to be heard. 

“And that’s the problem!” Crowley growls (in actuality, he sobs). 

Hastur studies the demon opposite him with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. He snaps his fingers. A box of tissues slides across the table to Crowley. He does not take it. Instead he shakes his head, buries his face into his palms. A wet mess. A proper mess. 

Hastur sneers. “Shut up, you stupid reptile. Stop crying. Sober up.” 

Crowley does not feel inclined to take the advice of someone who had once tried to kill him. He wishes Hastur would just turn into a daffodil; he’ll be more comforting that way. Oh, misfortune and unrequited love. 

A loud smack rings across the bar. Crowley suddenly finds himself facing the left, a stinging burn on his cheek. He nurses it in shock, glasses askew. Was he just...slapped? It’s hard to be sure. The last time he’d been slapped, it involved a horde of angry geese and only one slice of soggy bread. 

Crowley readjusts his glasses. He stares at Hastur. Hastur stares back. It’s getting a little awkward. Crowley is undecided between pretending nothing happened and lunging across the table to tackle the smelly bastard by the throat. 

Thankfully, Hastur chooses to speak.

“You fail at being a demon, fail to bring about Armageddon, and now, you fail miserably at courtship.” Every word out of his mouth drips acrid poison. “Isn’t there a single thing you can do right?”

“I trapped you in an ansaphone.”

He ignores this. “Pathetic. I can’t _ not _show you how it’s done.” 

Hastur is a duke of hell. A well respected high ranking official, which means he gives terrible advice. ‘Terrible’ in demonic language happens to translate to good, sound advice, but only if you’re a typical demon bred from hurtling into a pool of burning sulfur all the way from the gates of heaven at an astonishing speed. Hastur’s advice usually run along the lines of torturing your enemies into submission. It isn’t too useful when you really only had an angel to woo. 

“I don’t need your help,” Crowley reiterates. 

To no one’s surprise, Hastur fails to take the hint. “Guess I’ve no choice. Fine, I’ll lend you a hand. _ Only _because you are hopeless. A failure. A pathetic excuse for a demon. Die.”

And this is how Crowley’s day continues, drunk at a bar, forced to take the love advice from a demon whose last love had turned into a puddle of sizzling goo. 

————

They are outside Aziraphale’s bookshop, the busy corner of Soho. Coming here usually promised nice afternoons, of warmth and softness and the smell of books, the smell of Aziraphale and his love and tenderness, things other demons could never dream of and Crowley was just so damned lucky to have. Today though, he is cursed with the unwanted company of a die-hard demon. Crowley has never felt more out of place among humans. They’re all probably put off by the fact that someone has cool as him hangs out with a loony wearing a frog as a hat. 

“When you show up to his place, show up snazzy.” Hastur looks him up and down, and appears disgusted by what he sees. “_ That _ is not snazzy. What...is that?”

Crowley tosses his tie-tassel-scarf _ thing _over his shoulder. “Fashion, Hastur. Look it up.” 

The demon deadpans. “Do not go in there dressed like that, or Satan help us all.”

He snaps his fingers. Crowley feels a light breeze as he is unceremoniously given a complete makeover. The moment he feels linen brush against his skin, every hair on his back crawls in absolute revolt. 

“No. No no no no _ no _,” Crowley moans. “Not the 14th century. Anything but the 14th century.” 

“What’s the matter?” Hastur lifts a brow. “I rather like the 14th century.”

“With that plague and half of Europe dying?”

“Precisely.”

Typical. Mention the said century to any inhabitant of hell and they’d all nod approvingly like appraising a particularly shiny apple. Crowley studies his new outfit in despair. At least Hastur had the sense to put him in something black. He had on a houppelande, made of ebony silk that turns iridescent under the light. It was fastened around his waist by a gold belt, showing off the curves of his sharp hips. To top it off, a chaperon sits atop his head, embroidered with a pattern of undulating snakes around its rim. 

“I hate it,” Crowley says. 

Hastur nods as if it were a compliment. “Now that you look a bit less repulsive than normal, you might want to bring your angel some gifts, so that he pays less attention to how abhorrent you still look.”

He considers this. That tip isn’t half bad. Aziraphale is usually delighted by the smallest of acts and picking out a gift that he will like shouldn’t pose too big a challenge. 

“Crepes from the Ritz and a bottle of aged wine?”

Hastur explodes, “No!”

“_ Two _ bottles of aged wine?”

He slaps his face. “Lord satan give me strength. No. Crowley, do you want your angel to take you for a wimp?”

Crowley shrugs. Seeing Hastur’s murderous glare, he shakes his head. 

“Then think big! Think bold, think....” Hastur’s eyes slowly shift from him to past his shoulder. Crowley turns a half-pace. There is an electronics store across the street, putting up flat screen Tvs for sale behind the display. They are looping nature documentaries. Specifically the kinds that involve a lot of grizzly bears and muscular, shirtless hunters. “...Badass.”

————

The bell tinkles. “Angel?”

In his excitement, Aziraphale’s book drops into his lap. He miracles it to his desk carefully before rushing out out of the back room.

“Crowley, is that you? I’m coming!” 

He charges out from behind a shelf and manages to ram head-first into someone else. They both cry out in surprise. Crowley recovers first, and laughs, in that soft, quiet way he always does as if he is afraid of someone else hearing it. Hands gently scoop his up, their fingers interlocking. Crowley releases one of them to thumb lightly across the spot on Aziraphale’s forehead that still aches. 

“Alright there, angel?” 

Aziraphale is lost in the vivid gold of those mesmerising eyes. His heart stutters, skips, and he pulls away in a haste with a hot flush in his cheeks. Crowley lets him go. A fond smile still remains on his lips. It’s as if he’d never noticed. Aziraphale feels the guilt. He sometimes wonder if Crowley despises the way he is—awkward and clumsy and wanting to bolt at the slightest physical affection. It isn’t that Aziraphale is afraid of contact; he craves it. He was created with the sole desire of knowing and loving every living thing. The angelic instinct runs in his blood, it hums constantly in his mind. He wants to hold every life close to his heart, cradle them close, and Crowley the most. But he can’t. Not yet. It is frightening to think about what will happen if he does not keep himself at a distance, and fail to hold back. Crowley, fragile as he is, has to be protected. Not hurt.

Aziraphale will wait. Until Crowley says the words. 

“You’re back early,” he begins to remark, and that was when he notices. “Err…my dear?”

“Yes?”

He does not know where to begin. Maybe alphabetically would help. 

“Your clothes. They...correct me if I’m wrong, but are they from _ that _century by any chance?” he whispers. 

“Yeap,” Crowley says solemnly. It seems that is all he has to say on the matter. 

“Oh. You do look dashing. Very nostalgic.”

He preens. Has he come dressed like that to hear him say that? Right. Moving on. 

“Are those leaves in your hair?”

“Yes.” He ducks his head down slightly so Aziraphale can pick them out one by one. 

“And…” He’s saved the most shocking for the last. “Is that a python?”

“Yes! For you.” Crowley untangles the albino snake from his shoulders, presenting it proudly. Its sapphire eyes seem to be sizing him up. He must have passed the test. The python stretches out from Crowley’s hands and winds affectionately around Aziraphale’s arm, crawling up to dart a curious tongue against his cheek. Aziraphale scratches its head absently. 

“What brought this up?”

“I just thought...it’s...er, been awhile since I’ve gotten you something.”

Aziraphale hides a smile behind his hand. “So you give me a snake, of all things?”

“You don’t like it?” Crowley sounds whipped. 

“Of course I do, my dear. I love everything you give me.” He brushes the back of their hands together briefly. “Well. But honestly I was expecting something a little more...conventional. For us, I mean. Crepes and a bottle of wine, perhaps?”

Crowley frowns and murmurs something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘damn you Hastur’. 

“Though it _ is _nice to have some company when you’re not around,” Aziraphale says softly, giving the white python another scratch under its chin. Five minutes and it’s already smitten. Crowley is inexplicably jealous. Has he given Aziraphale a snake just to create some competition for himself? “Since you’re here, perhaps you could stay for a bit and teach me how to look after her?”

Hastur had specifically instructed him to leave the moment the deed is done. The key, according to him, is to appear both generous _ and _hard to get at the same time. But Crowley can’t leave. Not when Aziraphale was slanting his brows and pursing his lips, all pleading and hopeful in his sky-blue eyes. Crowley can never leave. He wants to sink down onto a knee, wants to catch one of Aziraphale’s hands and kiss lightly on the back of it. To hold and to love. To never let go. 

“Course, angel,” Crowley promises him. “I’m all yours.” 

————

“Now that you’ve convinced your angel you’re slightly more valuable than a worm, it’s time for the next step.” Hatsur gestures grandly. “Honesty. Who doesn’t appreciate an honest-to-satan chap? You want to be real with him. You want him to know that there are no secrets between you; that you can be trusted.” 

“A’ight.” Crowley nods. They are sharing a bench by the lakeside. He pushes his glasses closer to his face, draws his coat more snugly around him. If anyone should remember that he’d once sat arm-to-arm next to another demon, acting all chummy in a park, never mind the Antichrist—he shall cleanse the entire earth and all those watching himself. 

“Come clean to him about your deepest, darkest secrets,” Hastur hisses into his ear, his malevolent smile all pointy teeth and a wicked tongue. They begin to dissolve into smouldering ashes, blowing away in the next breeze that passes by. “Remember. _ Deepessstt, darkkkesssttt secretssssss _…”

The seat beside him empties out. Crowley dusts it clean, shooing away a leftover frog. He straightens up just as a headful of snowy curls bounces over, accompanied by a bright sunshine smile. 

“Crowley! Wonderful weather today, don’t you agree?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t noticed.”

Aziraphale delicately takes his seat beside him. When he leans back he frowns, eyes darting across and around the swaying trees intently. Nothing stirs, apart from the whispering leaves. His hand balls into a tense fist on the armrest. 

Crowley tilts his head. “What’s wrong, angel?”

“Something smells...evil.” His shoulders lift. His wings, if they are out now, will be fanned high up in the air in alert, with one of them curling protectively around Crowley. 

“Sure it isn’t me?” 

“Of course not,” Aziraphale tuts, affronted. “I know what you smell like. Not evil, for one. It’s very nice actually, um…I mean...ha ha ha! Why are we here? For business or pleasure?”

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat. He fidgets. He sweats. A bush nearby bursts into nervous flames, its fierce heat penetrating the late autumn chill. “I have something to tell you.”

Aziraphale watches him carefully. He does not blink, does not move. Crowley, when stressed and afraid, is as jumpy as a frightened animal. He stays as still as possible, and wills himself into calm patience despite the anxiety threatening to overcome him. 

“I’m listening, my dear.”

There is a roar in his mind. What has happened? Are they in trouble? Are their respective head offices making another move again? How long do they have left? Will they still be together in the end?

“Angel. How much do you know me?”

Aziraphale shifts in surprise. He hadn't expected a question. “Oh. Well, let’s see. I know you love your plants. I know how much you love that car of yours. I know you love bebop, lots of alcohol, black things and shiny things.” His hand unconsciously wanders forth to rest on Crowley’s knee. “I know, despite everything you say, how deep down you are nice and kind and good. You love earth. You love the humans and their children. And…” 

_ You love me. _

Aziraphale bites down on his tongue. He draws away with a small cough, removing his hand from Crowley’s lap. “Do you find the answer satisfactory, my dear?”

Crowley’s glasses had slipped an inch down his nose. His eyes are very gold and very vulnerable. “Ngh—good. Yes, it’s great. It’s good and all but,” he clears his throat. His voice had gone all raspy. “You still don’t know everything about me, ‘cause I’ve never told you. So I’ll tell you now.” 

Every word seems to be a knife that drives through his heart. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale winds his hands tightly together. His blood roars impossibly loudly in his ears. “Crowley. You’re not...going somewhere, are you?”

“What, after this? I’m thinking a record shop, to try out a bit of new music. Though it’ll all turn into Queen later. Still.” He makes a face, and shrugs. 

“No, Crowley. That is not what I mean.” Aziraphale inhales shakily. “You’re not saying goodbye, are you?” 

Crowley gapes. “What? No! No no no, ‘course not, why—why would you think that?”

Hands tackle his shoulders. Crowley is pushed flat against the back of the bench, palms breaking out in nervous sweat as Aziraphale leans over him and presses in closer, until there is mere inches between their eyes (and lips) and nose (and lips) and...you get the picture. 

“Why else would you say such scary things?” he demands. 

With the negligible distance between them, it is hard to think. Crowley’s mind stops and stutters. 

“I just thought that you should know.” His words come as a whisper. “I _ want _you to know.”

Aziraphale pulls away. Crowley follows, as if drawn by a cord linking his heart to his. The autumn wind blows past. It lifts the curls around Aziraphale’s ears and flutters his cerulean scarf. He is a gentle image in the afternoon sun, warmth in the November cold. Crowley wants to tell him everything. 

“Angel, I…”

Leaves skit across the pavement. They brush against his heels, catching under his sole. Aziraphale closes his eyes. 

“A long time ago, I…” Crowley balls his fists. “I once ate a whole tube of colgate.” 

Aziraphale opens his eyes. 

“I move my neighbour’s plants into my flat in the winter, because I’m afraid they’ll be cold.” 

“Crowley—”

“No angel, let me finish,” Crowley says, agonised. “I raise orphaned ducklings. They follow me around and see me as their mother. I watch cartoons. I _ like _cartoons.” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale takes his shoulder gently. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you still think I’m cool? After knowing bits about me that you never knew?”

Aziraphale brushes a stray lock of fiery hair from Crowley’s forehead. Ever since Armageddon’t, he has started growing them out again. A literal representation of letting his hair loose. He rather liked seeing Crowley like this. Living free and true. Why does he have to be punished for being anyone other than himself? 

“Of course, dear Crowley. My willy old serpent.” Aziraphale huffs a laugh that comes out as a breath of mist, and thumbs the length of Crowley’s cheek. “I adore each and every single part of you.”

They laugh and hold each other close. Behind a tree, Hastur lurks. Correction: _ has _ been lurking for quite a while now, not to mention spying, and notably eavesdropping. He is stupefied by what he has observed. _ They’re both idiots _, he finally decides. The notion makes him feel inclined to either punch something or get a dozen drinks. But because demons do not practice self-control, he goes out to do exactly both. 

————

Crowley stumbles into the bar a few hours later. He throws the door open with such fervor that it slams against the opposing wall, knocking a few ‘do not lick the walls’ signs loose and clattering loudly onto the floor. Some clap. Hastur scowls. 

“Abbadon, dudeeee.” Crowley miracles a wine glass into his hand, sauntering over to the bartender. “Top me up, ya big bastard.” 

The demon complies. He pops open a big red bottle, and tilts it over the rim of Crowley’s glass. Crowley shakes his head. He takes both the glass and the bottle, then slides into the seat across Hastur. The latter sighs loudly and nurses his temples. 

“He—”

Hastur cuts him off. “Don’t. Say a word. Do not. Speak. A single word. I seen it all, I heard it all. Absolutely revolting.” 

“—says he adoresssss each and every part of me,” Crowley swoons. 

He feels the bile rising in the back of his throat. “Ugh.” 

“Adore, he said. _ Adore _.”

“Hngk.” Hastur gags. 

“But adore as in friend-adore or love-adore, do ya think?”

His drink freezes halfway between the table and his lips. “Are you pretending to be stupid or are you actually this stupid?”

Crowley says slowly, “So…what you’re saying is...Aziraphale _ likes _me?”

Hastur closes his eyes. With all the alcohol in his system, he can ignore the overwhelming urge to strangle something. But only just barely. Never mind Crowley’s usual incompetence at work—Hastur and all the other dukes of hell have already resigned themselves to never seeing a shred of decent demonic work being done from him other than gluing pennies to the sidewalks or choking ducks to death—but it appears he reaches an entirely new level of incompetence when it comes to courting. He’s scarcely believing that this could even be possible. 

“Confess already, you absolute buffoon,” Hastur spits. 

“Hastur you ugly genius, you’ve finally said something not completely idiotic for once.” Crowley shoots up from his seat. His chair topples over and manages to punch a hole in the plaster wall, sending the edison lights above flickering haphazardly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a ring to buy.” 

“Right.” Hastur swirls his glass sourly. It only hits him a moment later. “Wait. _ What _?”

He too becomes charged with such infuriration that he knocks the table over. Glass shatters everywhere, red wine splatters over the dirt-coated tiles. Not a single demon bats an eye. Violence and sudden temper outbreaks are all part and parcel of daily life in hell. It would have been odd if Hastur had chosen to take his leave quietly. 

“I said confess, not propose, you bastard!” he roars. “_ Crowley _! I hate youuuuu!”

————

Today is the day. He’s sure of it. Winters are usually not for him, nor is Christmas or merry-making and whatever the humans feel inclined to do when it’s nearing the end of the year. This time though, he thought he’d make an effort not to sleep through the whole season. 

He’s so excited that he thinks it’s all a little stupid. And what isn’t? He’s stupidly in love, stupidly practicing his lines in the mirror while sweating and twirling the ring again and again in his hands. It’s all so stupid to the point that it is endearing. 

Today’s the day. He’ll make sure of it.

The phone rings. He picks it up and leaves it on speaker, placing it by his sink as he combs through his unruly hair in the mirror. “Yeah, angel?”

“Crowley! Yes, a very good morning to you, my dear.” He can hear his smile through the receiver. Crowley smiles himself, as he takes a loopful of his hair and braids it absently. “_ Well _ . I’m just calling you to, you know, let you know how excited I am. I mean—the Tallinn Christmas market? It’s only _ the _best Christmas market, and you invited me? Truly?”

“Yes I did, ang’l,” he says with the hairband between his teeth. “We ‘alked bout it last night, ‘emember?”

“Oh yes. I could hardly sleep! Not that I, um, sleep. But you get the expression.”

Crowley takes his two braids and fashions it in place at the back of his head, such that he appears to be wearing a crown of his own curls. He’d missed this. You can’t do this with short hair. It reminds him of simpler times, back in the garden of Eden, when Eve had braided his hair like this and they’d gossiped about the angel in white always standing guard on the eastern gate. 

“Keep your pants on.” He carefully fits a black beanie over his head (it gets cold). 

“Right. I shall, my dear, until tonight. My place or yours after the market?”

Crowley drops his comb into the sink. It clatters noisily against the marble. “_ Excuse _ me?”

“Tee-hee,” Aziraphale says, and then hangs up. 

He stares at his own scandalised expression in the mirror, as well as the hot flush to his cheeks. For someone’s sake. This angel is going to be the death of him. He splashes away the heat in his face, and marches to his wardrobe. There he puts on a grey wool shirt (warm), loops a maroon scarf around his neck (warmer), and finally a heavy black coat (warmest). He decides against bringing gloves. Who knows what opportunities that can open up?

The ring, gleaming in its box, sits upon the coffee table. All his plants are staring at it, whispering amongst themselves. They quiet down as he approaches. 

“That’s right, lads. It is what it looks like.” Crowley stuffs the tiny black leather box into his coat pocket. “Wish me luck.” 

A plant waves an encouraging leaf. Crowley nods, double-checks that the ring is in his pocket, and then steps through the front door of his apartment. 

He picks Aziraphale up outside his bookshop. The angel is excited, to say the least. He bounces while waiting on the sidewalk, wriggles a little in the passenger seat, and does not stop humming Christmas carols under his breath. The drive from London to Tallinn takes approximately 28 hours. It takes far less (think a couple of minutes), if one had a Bently driven by a cheating demon. He goes fast, but also takes the scenic route. It’s supposed to be a romantic drive there after all. Snow falls, gently down upon the windscreen. Various winter sceneries pass them by. First the congested city, then empty expressways, and finally white forests and a grey ocean. 

Crowley spares the angel beside him a sideways glance. “Finally gotten rid of your coat?”

“No, I could never! It’s at home, if you must know,” Aziraphale tuts. “I thought I could use a little wardrobe change, that’s all. Do you...like it?”

He certainly does look more modern, even if his colour scheme hasn’t changed much. He wears a cream faux suede jacket over a pine-green turtleneck, and a checkered scarf that Crowley highly suspects is from a certain expensive brand. 

The longer he looks at him, the more it gets to him. Crowley looks away with his face warmer than before. He clears his throat. “It’s...snazzy.” 

Aziraphale coughs a laugh. “Snazzy? How is that any better than tickety-boo?”

“Shut up.” 

“Well, my dear. I think you look very nice yourself. I _ love _your hair.” 

Crowley sinks his nose into his scarf. “...Shut up.” 

They reach the market just as evening begins. Aziraphale clambers out from the car first. Crowley expects that he’d rush off into the crowd as usual (angelic enthusiasm, a formidable thing) and he’ll have to look for him later, but a hand extends down towards him when he opens the car door. 

Crowley takes it and lets Aziraphale pull him out into the wintery night. He shivers instantly. 

“Cold?” Aziraphale does not let go. Instead he stuffs their interlocked hands into his pocket. Crowley feels the warmth immediately. See? Told you ungloved hands always come in handy. 

They walk towards the market. Blue fairy lights hang above their heads, linking the buildings on their left and right. Streetlamps flicker as they pass. They leave Aziraphale’s face in soft glows of blue and white. Crowley tries not to appear as if he is constantly staring. But he is. Despite all the flashy lights and polished windows and street musicians pulling strings of Christmas carols, Crowley finds it incredibly hard to look at anything else. Aziraphale’s eyes are constantly alight, twin orbs of gleaming aquamarine, as he gazes at anything and everything in quiet wonder. He curls his lips into unconscious smiles, lets out small gasps of delight as puffs of white mist, and just seems not to realise how beautiful he looks in this fairytale moment. 

“Oh my, we’re here!” Aziraphale squeaks. The pavement has opened up into a large square crowded with wooden booths and people clamouring under a vast canopy of winking lights. Crowley is blinded wherever he looks. The flagstones are awash with liquid gold, and gold is everywhere, in the lights, in Aziraphale’s eyes and on Crowley’s skin. He has forgotten that such a radiance even exists. He used to bathe in them daily, as an archangel who weaved stars and shaped constellations. But then he had been cursed to fall, down down down, to a place their light will never reach him. 

Now, he is not so sure. After all, the glow in Aziraphale’s eyes and starlight are one and the same. 

Aziraphale catches his arm suddenly. He’s pointing towards the centre of the market, saying something that Crowley couldn’t catch. 

“What’s that?” he asks offhandedly. The world has only just begun to return to him. He slowly wakes from the dream that is his old life, and returns to Aziraphale, warm and bright and so very real. The ring starts to weigh a ton in his pocket. 

“The tree, Crowley! The tree! Do you see it?” 

“Oh.” He can feel his own eyes lighting up. “I do.” 

The tree was of a monstrous size, and a sea of luminous lights. It is decked right from the bottom with ornaments and ribbons and everything ostentatious, right to the giant star up at the very top. Children squealed and ran around its circumference. Crowley wants to do the same. Under this light that melts away all unpleasantries, nothing remains but kindness and innocence. 

“Do you feel that?” Aziraphale closes his eyes and sighs. 

“Hmm?”

“Love. Love everywhere. Do you know, humans just adore their holidays and each other at this time of the year? It’s why I rather like Christmas. But of course…” his pale lashes flutter like snow. “This year, it’s much better with you here.”

Crowley can’t speak with the lump in his throat. Then the midnight bell starts to chime. Its deep tones reverberate through the entire square. People cover their ears and laugh, but their laughter is lost to the bells. Aziraphale takes his shoulder and speaks wordlessly to him. 

Crowley’s heart jumps with the bells. _ Clang. Clang. Clang. _His hands shake. His mouth dries. Everything is telling him to bolt and run far away. But he’s come too far to change his mind now. 

_ Clang. Clang. Clang. _

The bells still. Everyone begins to talk at once. The market ambience returns, loud and noisy and as lively as ever. The crowd moves along, shuffling away from the tree. Aziraphale glances about in surprise. It’s almost as if Crowley had frozen time for a second. _ Oh _ , he realises, when he finds Crowley on one knee in front of him. _ He really did _. 

“Angel, I know you told me once that I go too fast for you,” Crowley says. “But I can’t go slower anymore. Not when I love you this much. I hope...I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Aziraphale brings his hands to his mouth. “Oh, you can go faster, Crowley. I want you to.” 

A blush crosses his cheeks. “Nghh. Right. Then, err...” he pulls out a small black box from his coat pocket. “I got this...for you. Will you...will you take it?”

Aziraphale beams tearily. “Will you help me put it on?”

Crowley launches to his feet faster than light itself. “Of course.” 

His hands shake. They were already shaking before, but they shake now as he opens the box, and continues to as he takes the ring and slips it into Aziraphale’s finger. He lifts up his hand and examines it under the light of the market and the distant winking stars. 

It is custom made, exquisitely and immaculately carved right down to the smallest detail. A pair of rubies is set into the silver serpent’s eyes, glittering whenever he turned his hand. 

“That’s me,” Crowley says, resting his chin on his shoulder from behind. “Cause you know. You’ve got me all wrapped around your finger.”

“Crowley! Don’t say it like that,” Aziraphale laughs, caressing his cold face. 

“I’m all yours, if you’ll have me. Scrap that. I’m yours, even if you don’t want me. There’s no return policy for me _ or _the ring,” he quips. “The jeweller has a strict set of rules. What a prat.” 

“In all six-thousand years, you’re the only one who’s been by my side. Who else is there for me, if it isn’t you?” Aziraphale pulls away gently, and spins round to face him. “So, my love, I want you to have this. It’s the only thing that has seen you and me through the centuries. ” 

He starts to slip off the gold ring from his pinky. Crowley is so enraptured by the act that he does not notices at first that Aziraphale has paused. 

“It’s by no means new or expensive,” he says hastily. “I understand completely, of course, if you wish for another. I can get one, but err—oh dear. The shops are all closed for Christmas. Oh, Crowley, I am _ so _sorry—”

Crowley takes the ring himself and slips it onto his finger. He then holds it up, adoration in his golden eyes. 

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. 

Aziraphale feels dizzy at the weight of their shared gaze. “I—it is? You do like it then, my dear?”

Crowley smiles and closes his eyes. “I love it. I love you.” 

If he was a human, the appropriate reaction would be that it was hard to breathe. And it really is. So instead of breathing, Aziraphale makes the fairy lights above flare even brighter. Their glows ebb and diffuse into the night sky, from which a light snow has begun to fall. They speckle against Crowley’s black coat. Aziraphale touches the ones on his shoulder, then his collar, and before he knows it, he has pulled him in by the scarf. 

Their lips meet eagerly. He runs his hands through Crowley’s hair, pulling free his braids, letting his curls wind round his finger. Crowley tightens his hold around his waist. 

“You haven’t answered my question from this morning.” Aziraphale smiles against his lips. 

“Wha’s that?”

“Right now...my place or yours?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> *listens to 2 hours of christmas ambience to write this*  
I know it's not even October yet but somehow I'm already excited for Christmas, like it's gonna be soon right?? Anyway, I did some research about the Tallinn christmas market and wow wheeee it really is beautiful. I'll probably never go there myself but while writing this I got to experience some of it ;')  
Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!! 
> 
> Btw, sorry for any mistakes. I'm too tired to edit ha ha ha ~~


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